


Hearts and Battles

by Fadesintothewest



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Loss, M/M, battles, departures - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-26 13:03:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17746406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fadesintothewest/pseuds/Fadesintothewest
Summary: Love for the elves in the First Age was a very different type of thing than what was told in the tales that came later of the First Age. This is a glimpse into the Noldor as warriors, as people trying to figure out who they were.





	Hearts and Battles

“Fingolfin and Fingon his son held Hithlum…. But their chief fortress was at Eithel Sirion in the east of Ered Wethrin, whence they kept watch upon Ard-galen; and their cavalry rode upon that plain even to the shadow of Thangorodrim… their people were the most hardy and valiant, most feared by the Orcs and most hated by Morgoth.” 

 _Silmarillion_ , Quenta Silmarillion, Ch 14, Of Beleriand and Its Realms

 

**Hearts and Battles**

 

Over the ridge the riders came, the earth rumbling beneath them. In their company were many of the Sindar. The Green elves watched from the edge of the forest, not yet willing to fight with the Noldor. Their cousins were brutish and violent, and worst of all arrogant.  

The hordes came, covering the hillside like ants. There was an eerie glow that rolled in front of them, like an enchanted light caught somewhere between fire and mists. It was the first onslaught of Morgoth in this battle, one of many not named in the history that would later be told by the second born. Fingon’s riders met them head on and the valley resounded with the clashing of bodies and armor. The earth rumbled, the explosion of energy sent deep within and rolling out. Elven steeds mad with battle fury, channeled the might of the Eldar in battle.  

It was said of that battle that the Eldar appeared like avenging beings descended from the stars; their eyes bright and terrifying, their battle cries filled with the essence of Power possessed by the Eldar. Their power surged before them, carried in the currents of energy that pulsated from their battle song, the battle cry of the Eldalië. It was magnificent and terrible, a weapon of war that would raze whatever lay ahead. The first lines of the orcs were felled, the green mists pushed back, submerged within the power of that terrible Song.  

Their hair streamed behind them catching the light of Arien, like the radiance of stars. It was a glorious site, some would say. Others would remark on the terror of war. Spears and swords glinted in the sunlight that pierced the clouds, and shards of light like lightning glimmered amongst the battle fray. It was elven steel against orcish blade. They clashed together with such force the steel would spark. 

And though this battle did not make the accountings of the great stories told of the Eldar, it proved to be one that in lesser tales was named as reflecting a new order: the first battle of a reunited Noldor under their High King Fingolfin: All the houses of the children of Finwë united under one banner. For the first time the children of Fëanor, Fingolfin, Findis, Lalwen, and Finarfin drew swords together and unleashed the beauty of war that harkened to their early days, before the Journey, full of witchcraft and darkness, light and faerie, and all the colors and chords in between. They were fighting with the full glory of Endórë pulsating within them. With every stroke of the sword, elven brutality was unleashed. With every thrust of the spear, elven fury was made manifest.  

On that day Fingolfin was mightiest. His sword called down lighting and he wielded it with such force that the earth would tremble and fires would erupt as his sword hacked and hewed the enemy. As High King he could wield the terrible power of his armies and he was a sight to behold. The Noldor were indeed a People made for war. Their Doom rode with them and they laughed in its face, though it would claim them, eventually, but their might was a mistress, lulling them to believe perhaps, they could outlast the doom. In this battle the Noldor fought with a renewed sense of unity and to witness it was both terrible and magnificent.  

Morgoth was testing the Noldor, willing to sacrifice those that were loyal to him. He needed to know what type of might the Noldor would have. They had almost come undone, but this defeat let him know that his foe was mighty. He knew then he would have to further divide the Noldor, if not by jealousy then by distance. He would attack in smaller units, sending the Noldor to take up fortresses across Beleriand. It would be a slow task, but this he knew he could accomplish.

Fingolfin rallied the forces to him and together they shouted victory. The Green elves would later say that their victory cry was both beautiful and terrifying. Orc bodies were gathered and burned, the wind carrying the acrid smell away. Patrols were set to assure no remaining orcs remained and always to keep a watchful eye for more sorcery from Morgoth. And for many of the elves, it was a time to celebrate in the makeshift camp formed near the battlefield.

For Glorfindel it meant he needed to find Ecthelion. Theirs had been a reunion that was tentative. Ecthelion was much disappointed with Glorfindel’s abandonment of Fingolfin. The union in this first battle was more than just about war. It was about confronting the things that were driving them apart. Their touches before Turgon had taken his people to Nevrast had been tentative, unwilling to cede ground in their loyalties: Glorfindel to Turgon and Ecthelion to Fingolfin. Ecthelion and Glorfindel were now creatures of war, undone by the long march over the ice. Colder hearted and less foolhardy. Glorfindel spotted Ecthelion across a campfire.

Ecthelion stood at the edge of the forest line, taking in the celebration of the Noldor in Beleriand. His heart was still beating quickly in his chest, yet to come down from that very peculiar high that is war. Ecthelion felt Glorfindel’ eyes upon him. Glorfindel’ gaze was fixed on him. So they would soon know the extent of who they were now. Ecthelion dared Glorfindel to follow him, turning into the forest. Glorfindel followed.

Glorfindel did not have long to look for Ecthelion, taking him roughly when the two came neared one another. They needed no words. The battle lust still coursed through their veins, unyielding, defiant. Their teeth clashed, nails claimed flesh, bruising explorations of newly revealed skin full of sweat, grime, and blood. It was torrid and quick, but they found a way to fuck their way back into their bodies. Ecthelion grabbed Glorfindel’s hair at the nape of his neck, pulling hard, willing him to fuck him harder. Glorfindel growled, responding to Ecthelion’s commands. He was fucking him like Ecthelion was an animal at his disposal and he was willing in all of it. The tree bark scratched and cut into Ecthelion’s back. Glorfindel was pushing him hard into the tree, Ecthelion’s body responding, pushing and demanding more. Ecthelion’s eyes rolled back, so overcome with desire. Moans of battle fury and ecstasy rolled through him, erupting from deep within. Glorfindel kept pulling out that fire, threading into the center of Ecthelion with each of his thrusts until Glorfindel found his own body’s ascent into that fiery center of ecstasy. He brought Ecthelion with him, exploding in him, felt his cock would come undone inside of Ecthelion.  

This was the only way Ecthelion and Glorfindel knew how to fuck. Gone was tender love-making for that was something unfamiliar to them in the days that would be counted as the first age. Though there was still a softness to them, sex was something different than it had been before. That too would change, in time, when they would seek solace together in the hidden city of Gondolin, yet to be built. 

The two elves collapsed on the earth, trying to find their breath and still their wild hearts. “Tis the Song,” Glorfindel whispered.

Ecthelion let out a satisfying moan. “Who knew Songs of Power could be such an aphrodisiac.”

“Battle lust,” Glorfindel retorted, “and Songs of such power. It is no wonder that the entire army is not fucking.”

Ecthelion raised his hand to his forehead, stilling his thoughts, allowing humor to find a way into his desire driven thoughts. “I do not think they could fuck as we.”

It was Glorfindel turn to laugh. “A proper observation,” Glorfindel quipped.

They were no longer the youths of Tirion that would worry about their words. There was no need to hide behind metaphor, behind a suggestive turn of phrase.

“If this is how our love will be then I am better for it, for I am not that Ecthelion that was left behind.”  They had spoken of their relationship, of their love before, but had decided they needed time to figure out how to be with each other in these new lands. Ecthelion was unwilling to dwell in love with Glorfindel leaving to Nevrast.

Glorfindel sat up, catching Ecthelion’s face in his hand. “Nor I the Glorfindel that clamored for you to come with me and abandon your King.”

“Besotted, spoiled warriors,” Ecthelion laughed, placing his own hand on Glorfindel’s leg. Their touch was not without tenderness.

“I love you better now,” Glorfindel revealed, allowing his hand to feel the familiar weight of Ecthelion’s hair.

Ecthelion’s eyes softened. “We could not love each other then as we do now. For how could we have known ourselves.” Ecthelion sat up and scooted closer to Glorfindel. “I know myself, from my most miserable days to my most brave, I know myself.”

Glorfindel inclined his forehead against Ecthelion’s’. “My love shall ever be honest. There is no other way I know how to be.”

Ecthelion nodded, closing his eyes and allowing the essence of Glorfindel to mingle with his own. “I love you better,” Ecthelion repeated Glorfindel’ words.

Glorfindel made to stand and Ecthelion protested, but he reached out and took the hand Glorfindel offered him. “We must go back,” Glorfindel reminded Ecthelion. “Fingolfin will be looking for you.”  The two walked back to the makeshift camp.

 

)()()( 

Glorfindel was famished after the battle and his encounter with Ecthelion. He made his way over to a fire where plump rabbits were being roasted over a fire. He was exhausted but needed to fill his belly. Inelegantly he let himself plop down by the fire, to wait for a roasted rabbit. Finrod looked up at Glorfindel with an inquisitive look, knew that Glorfindel had been with Ecthelion, was surprised at their open exhibitionism, if it could be called that on the dusk of battle. While Finrod understood it as part and parcel of a soldier’s life, he wondered if Ecthelion and Glorfindel allowed themselves release in each other to keep any feelings they still might harbor for each other buried deep, unacknowledged.  

Finrod spied Ecthelion sitting with Fingolfin, casting a stolen look here and there at Glorfindel. Finrod smiled to himself, watching how Glorfindel too looked over at his father’s fire, looking at Ecthelion. While Ecthelion could not tolerate intimacy of the old sort, neither could Glorfindel. They both expressed it very differently. “Strange,” Finrod spoke, tending the rabbit on the spit, “the two of you certainly found a way to each other.”

Glorfindel grunted and between mouthfuls of rabbit, he said the following: “We understand one another. And there is love. Nothing more can be said.”

Finrod raised an eyebrow. Laughing he offered Glorfindel the strange spirits that the Green elves had brought to the victorious army. But Finrod was happy. Glorfindel was good for Ecthelion and surely they would need each other in the times to come.

These battles were omitted for they revealed too much of the nature of the First Born, an image that the Second Born dared not look at too closely. 

 

)()()()(

 

F.A. 155. It was dusk, but the new layer of snow made the land bright. The great evergreens in the hills just beyond Barad Eithel were blanketed with a light dusting of snow. It was deep in the winter season, but the snows had not come regularly. The weather sent by Morgoth had corrupted the winter patterns, but he had suffered one of many defeats during the long siege of Angband, an almost 400 year period of smaller skirmishes, battles, and peace. The mists that emanated from Angband to cover his forces had receded, allowing winter’s snows to fall once more. 

Fingon had recently defeated the orcs sent out by Morgoth. It was discovered that their intent was to take the Noldorin King Fingolfin alive, but they had failed in their quest. The orcs, sent along the coast of Drengist to attack Hithlum from the West, were spotted by the Noldor. Fingon and his people descended upon them with such force and viciousness that the orcs were quickly routed, sending a message to Morgoth that orcs alone would not defeat the elves. The captive orcs were tortured, information extracted. The elves too inflicted misery and terror.

But this was a time of celebration, of rejoicing in the coming of the snow, once more, and the sense that perhaps there would be some semblance of peace. A stillness descended upon the land, more than the quietness than the second born would observe after a snowfall. For elven ears, the slumber was more a quietness that had sound. They could hear the gentle life of hibernating creatures, the slow speech of the trees, and the stillness of waters that would soon sing with the coming of spring.

The Noldor were gathered to celebrate the small victory, but it was not the same. With Turgon retreated to his secret valley, Finrod gone to his caves, and the rest spread east in defensive positions, the houses were once more parted.  There had been other skirmishes, other battles, so many that later tales would not document them. It was a sad thing really, that only the great battles, the ones where so many died would be remembered, but not for the elves that lived them. They would never forget even when reborn. Fingon sat by a fire singing a soft tune, welcoming the light of isil and wishing good journey’s to those departed. Death was both novel and tragic and held a feeling that the Noldor did not have a name for: unknown. They could not fathom what happened after death even if they knew that they would go to the Halls of Mandos, if they chose to. But that path was less clear to the sons of Fëanor.

Glorfindel sat pensively, his legs stretched out in front of him. Death, too was on his mind, as it was for all of them. Some of Turgon’s people had come to celebrate with their king, returned from Gondolin to the mouth of the river Sirion.  In his hand he passed a stone between his fingers, the smoothness of it like a balm for his aching hands. Heavy was his sword, but Glorfindel never tired.

“Out here alone” Fingon spoke to Glorfindel.

Glorfindel turned to look upon the beauty of Fingon, much like that of Ecthelion. Their resemblance was not a surprise, being grandchildren of Finwe. Glorfindel gifted him a quiet smile. “I was remembering our youth.”

“It does us no good to dwell in those days,” Fingon gently reproached Glorfindel.

“I will die here,” Glorfindel replied. Fingon did not answer. Glorfindel continued, “It seems a reward to dwell in those days. Days when the world was wide and we felt alive, so we thought.”

“And yet we knew that we were not all we could be. Our lives circumscribed,” Fingon answered, weariness weighing heavy on his voice for the looming departure of his good friend, once more. _But not good enough_ , Fingon silently surmised.

Glorfindel knew that Turgon’s departure and unwillingness to participate in the defenses of their fragile alliance weighed heavily on Fingon. And that Ecthelion had departed with Turgon had been a heavy blow to Fingon. Glorfindel inclined his head in agreement. “I crossed an ocean of ice in search of that.” And so had Argon. Perhaps if he had lived, they would not be parted.

“You mourn him,” Fingon observed, remembering Argon, knowing Glorfindel mourned the person that had been ever his best friend. “I mourn him too,” Fingon whispered, remembering the way his little brother would collapse in laughter, the expressiveness of his bright, grey eyes, and the way he traversed between the different social circles of the Noldor with great ease.

Glorfindel sat next to Fingon, wrapping his arm around his friend. “I do… and I mourn us.” They sat by the fire for a few hours, their minds turned to those that had been lost, and to what had been lost. With the sounds of dawn approaching, Glorfindel broke the silence between them, whispering to Fingon, “I will die in Gondolin. I have seen it.”

Fingon sat up, turning to where Glorfindel had settled against a moss covered log, looking into those blue eyes that revealed Glorfindel’s interior world. “Perhaps,” Fingon answered, knowing Glorfindel was not looking for comfort. “But we are here now, together. _For a moment_ ” Fingon said, his thoughts concluding what he knew was unspoken between he and Glorfindel. Fingon studied the familiar face of his friend. “I think this is a doom that awaits us all.” Fingon closed his eyes and pronounced what they all knew: “We are the damned.”

Glorfindel sighed. “And yet I dare say I am the happiest I have ever been despite the overwhelming feeling of loss and sadness I carry.”

“Our curse, our gift,:” Fingon offered. “Give my best to my brother, my sister, my cousin. I miss them dearly. And…”. Fingon paused, taking Glorfindel’s hand in his own. “Love him as best you can.”

“I swear it,” Glorfindel replied, repeating an oath he had made to himself many times over.

They were the damned, the doomed, but they were also of the Noldor, and though their tales of bravery would last the ages, the mundane, the forbidden would also find a way to materialize within the sanitized histories the Second Born would later write of the First Age. In between the lines in those tomes, secreted behind words of friendship and loyalty, hints of love, betrayal, and passion would seep through the pages, finding a semblance of a tale in those who were willing to find it.

**Author's Note:**

> And thank you in advance for those who have left lovely comments and those who will. I will be out of town and away from internet for not too long, but will come back and read the lovely lovely comments. Thanks again!


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